


What New York Used to Be

by weytani



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Role Reversal, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-08 17:58:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12259278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weytani/pseuds/weytani
Summary: A moment in between.





	What New York Used to Be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pasiphile](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pasiphile/gifts).



> Brief, but I hope there's something to enjoy here, pasiphile! Warning for inappropriate iron usage. Title from The Kills.

Root exhales through her nose, slow and lazy, as she rubs her heels against the wooden chair legs. There’s not a lot of wiggle room here; the zipties pinch at her ankles, her wrists, but in a way that encourages further movement.

This is her own idea, after all. Root’s had it in mind for a while, rolling it around with growing interest, a ball of string with a cat paw swinging this way and that. Her relationship with Shaw has been developing nicely, and a new level of trust has peaked from the ether. Something to play with. And Shaw hasn’t always been so open to her suggestions.

“A little tight?” Shaw looks up from where she’s crouched at Root’s side. Her hand traces one of the zipties, fingernail prying under the strap and catching skin.

“Claws out so soon,” Root says, and tilts her head down to give Shaw a hooded look. An eager smile. “But no; I’d be disappointed in you otherwise.”

Grunting, Shaw rises from the floor and stretches out. Root takes the opportunity to leer at her in the white button-down shirt, the tie folded once and thrown over her shoulder like she’s half-dressed for someone else’s party.

The pencil skirt had been a point of conflict for a while – “for authenticity, Sameen” – but Root has steadily developed the ability to compromise in her quest for a moral compass. The tailored slacks, she thinks, do wonders for the supple curve of Shaw’s ass.

While Root’s attention floats on this, a favourite subject of hers, Shaw rolls her shirt sleeves up to the elbow and goes to flick a switch on the wall. There’s a steam iron rested upright on the table, the type you’d find in a good hotel room; unless, of course, a negligent guest with an insatiable lover has lifted it from the premises.

A puff of steam from the iron. The light on its handle blinks red. Root licks her lips, fingers cupped tightly over the arms of the chair, and Shaw meets her eyes with a wicked smile of her own.

“You ready for this?” Shaw asks. She wrings out the words so Root can feel every syllable, and her thighs rub together in search of sweet friction.

“For you, Sameen, I’m always ready.”

 _And vice versa_ , she thinks, but she won’t verbalise that little titbit. Shaw knows that Root has her in a chokehold of sexual intimacy. Sometimes in the very literal sense. But Root’s on her best behaviour tonight, in the name of creative roleplay, and lest Shaw take the next step forward into true authenticity and jab her with the prongs of her own taser.

Root wants full autonomy in all her parts for what’s about to happen next.

“So,” Shaw says, folding long fingers around the handle of the iron. She picks it up, flat side bared for Root’s eyes to follow the jaw-like pattern on its face, heat practically spitting from the soleplate. “I’m going to need... the name of that contact.”

Root slouches down in the chair, lets her head roll back against the top rail as she tries to channel Shaw’s posture from that day so long ago. Shaw’s hoodie, unzipped and pushed back, chest heaving. The tank top leaving so much skin bared, exposed, to the enemy. Root, the enemy. Shaw, bringing the iron down low to hover inches from Root’s collarbone.

She’s getting too eager now.

“I kind of enjoy this sort of thing,” Root says, when Shaw tears her focused gaze from Root’s chest to look her in the eye.

“I know.” Root’s eyelids flutter. Not quite how she remembers it.

Shaw pulls the iron back, just an inch, and leans forward. She’s on her knees now, stomach pressed against the insides of Root’s thighs. Root wants to lock her ankles around Shaw’s back. She wants to bury her fingers in that beautiful brown hair, and pull hard.

She wants so much, all the time. Whatever Shaw will give her.

Today, Shaw is giving her a second-degree burn, right across the plane of her chest.

Root chokes out a sob, her head slumping forward and her body jerking back against the restraints in a violent flinch that poorly reflects how good it feels. The iron is barely on her, a second or two, but the heat still lingers. Pain flares and licks at her chest in time with the sharp, numbing pain of the zipties holding her down.

Almost immediately, Shaw’s face is in her periphery, checking up on her, and Root can’t reach out like she wants to, but she can stare, open-mouthed, and smile like the heavens have opened up.

“I really,” she murmurs, pausing for a second to breathe in and out as the pain lights up again, “ _really_ enjoy this sort of thing.”

Shaw watches in silence as Root breathes in short bursts for a while. She puts down the iron somewhere out of sight, and flattens her palms over Root’s hips. Thumbs pressing down, eyes narrowed as she ducks her head and leans up to catch Root’s mouth in a deep kiss.

Her lips, her tongue, and the perfect ridge of her teeth biting down and twisting and chasing something Root can’t quantify. She can feel Shaw’s fingers on her stomach, under the tank top, scratching once and dipping down into the now-open fly of her pants.

Pain and pleasure zigzag inside her, a pinball machine in place of a body. Shaw’s hand is stroking her, spreading her open with two fingers, while the other hand lingers on the red imprint of the iron, pushing just enough to keep the pain going.

Root opens her mouth a fraction more and changes the angle of their kiss. She wants to give some of the pleasure back to Shaw, let her feel the intensity of this experience. Maybe she’ll pin Shaw down against the kitchen table later. Maybe she’ll chain her to the shower curtain rail in the bathroom.

Maybe Shaw would like another round with the steam iron.

Root can feel her orgasm building around Shaw’s talented fingers. A little more, a little longer. Shaw adds a third finger, her thumb rubbing circles. She pulls back from the kiss, and Root groans, losing focus every passing second.

“I do, too,” Shaw says quietly, and hooks her fingers just enough to send Root over.


End file.
